I Never Cry
by Galxychld
Summary: An explanation for one of Marguerite's behaviors


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Disclaimer: Darn it all, I don't own any of them! OK, I promise to put Marguerite back safe and sound when I'm done with this. I don't think Roxton would appreciate it if I didn't. I am just doing this for enjoyment, so please enjoy!

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Time Frame: Set just after "Suspicion." OK, so I haven't seen "Finn" or even half of "Suspicion," but I think this would fall right after "Suspicion."

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Rating: PG (for the angst and some words)

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Author's notes: I've done lots of fanfic in 1st person POV, but this is my first with TLW, so please be gentle with me! I love the character of Marguerite, so I tried to do a fanfic in her POV. Please forgive me if it falls far from what she should sound like! Iwondered about what is behind Marguerite's very infrequent tears, so I thought I'd write this as an explanation. It's a little more angsty than I thought it would be. Oh, well. Please please PLEASE read and review! It would make my little heart so happy!

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I NEVER CRY

The jungle is quiet tonight. Not that it isn't quiet on other nights, but tonight I particularly notice. We nearly lost Challenger today, to some fool demon trapped in a bottle like a damned genie. And then John went and offered himself in Challenger's place. As I stare out into the darkness from my seat on the balcony, remembering these recent events, I feel an irritating prickling in my eyes. No, no, no, I will not allow it, I never allow it. I press my fingers against my temples and squeeze my eyes shut, taking deep, calming breaths until the sensation passes. Good to know the old trick still works.

I don't cry. I never cry. It's been years since I actually cried. I don't count that hallucination cave; I wasn't really myself, and what I experienced there would make anyone a bit out of control. Even when John and the others went over that cliff, I refused to let the tears fall. My voice was thick with them and they crowded my eyes, but they did not fall. However, in spite of my resolve, and in spite of years spent perfecting a variety of techniques, my time on the plateau has brought me closer to tears than anything I've ever known. This year especially. First I was nearly killed by a trickster god, then John was nearly killed by, of all things, his own double, then we were all nearly killed by a vengeful spirit. We're getting very good at getting very nearly killed. And of course Veronica went missing, and Ned left, then I finally had to divulge the secret of why I came on this expedition. I'm surprised that the skin at my temples isn't bruised by the number of times I've pressed my fingers there, and I must have expanded my lung capacity a great deal by the amount of deep breathing I've done. 

Still I have maintained control, even if it hangs by a fingernail. Tears have threatened, tears have even been so bold as to make their way into my eyes, but I have not let them fall. I can't. I won't. Tears are a weakness. Some say you cry when you are happy, but I myself have never found occasion to experience happiness so profound as to warrant tears. And some say tears allow a release of tension and emotion, but I've found that all they do is reveal your own frailty. Frailty is a liability, especially in this place, where the law of the jungle rules, quite literally.

Tears proved useless against the nuns in the convent. They merely told me that trying to prey on their emotions would do no good whatsoever. Tears over childhood nightmares never brought comfort, only reproof from whichever sister whose sleep I had disturbed. Tears brought ridicule from the other girls. I would watch them as their families came and enfolded them in love I desperately yearned for, as hugs and kisses were exchanged, where the gifts were lavish and pretty, not just useful and dutiful presents from the nuns. The girls would laugh when I cried, calling me crybaby, mocking the lonely little girl with a generous allowance and the lack of friends. 

"Poor sad Marguerite," they would call, "no one wanted her, no one loves her, she has plenty of money that was probably given by her parents to keep her away from them." The words stung like barbs in my childish heart, and my heart bled with pain. Soon enough I learned that the only way to keep from getting teased was to never let them see me cry. Controlling my tears gave me the first step to control over my own life.

Tears did nothing the day my first and only little pet dog, the one the nuns had allowed me to keep, was hit and killed by a carriage. Tears solved nothing the day I saw one of my schoolmates, the only girl who I had been close to, apply to the convent in order to escape the hard fists of her husband. Tears only succeeded in giving me a headache when several universities rejected me.

Tears in Shanghai showed me how weak I had become, how tightly I had wound my emotions around someone who had no problem ripping my heart into little pieces. The pain and loss I felt there crystallized my resolve. Shanghai was the last time I really cried. I vowed never to let it happen again.

Yet I realize that here, in this place, life is even more fragile and unpredictable that I ever thought it could be. Is it possible that here, in this plateau tucked away from the rest of the world, I could find reasons to cry, and people who will accept my tears and not mock me for them? I want to believe this; I desperately want to believe it. I want to believe that if I cry, there will be gentle hands to wipe away my tears. I want to believe that someone will sit with me and hold me until the tears stop. I want to believe that warm, comforting words will be offered to sooth my bruised heart, instead of cold and harsh pronouncements about my obvious weaknesses.

Until I can really believe that, however, believe it down in the depths of me, I will not cry. I know that the day I have to reveal all of my secrets will be the most painful day of my life, and I will need someone there for the tears that no amount of pressure at my temples or no amount of breaths will be able to stop. I hope against hope that John will be there for me, that he will still be able to care for me and offer me his comfort, that all the rest of my friends will at least try to understand. Tears are so personal, so vulnerable. I can't share them until I am sure they won't be for nothing.

So I sit in my room or out here on the balcony, and I press my fingers to my temples and take deep, cleansing breaths. In and out, slow and careful, moving my fingers to my eyes when rubbing my temples doesn't seem to be working. Let them think I care less then I do, let them wonder at my stoic responses. If there's one thing I've learned, it's this: Unless you can be sure they won't turn away, never let them see you cry. I am not sure, not yet, so they will never see me cry. Never. Never. 

Oh, please, God, someday let them see me cry.

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The End


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